Jennifer Ruth Jackson
Let us lie beneath the metal trees
scoured by the gritty, sour wind—
clasped tentacle and hand,
book perched between us.
Your fleshy opening will form the words.
Your vision sensors leaking, will glisten.
I shall try to read along
when your syllables dissolve
and you make the sound
your species produces
when death arrives.
I will spit out my calming fluid
until you sag near sleep.
But, you will not succumb
unless I say, “it’s all right, my child”.